She woke that morning and rolled instinctively towards his side f the bed. The coldness of the the sheets brought the knowledge of his death crashing back.

She sat up, blinking from the bright sunshine that was streaming in through the window and stood up in the bed to look out across the village and down to the shore. This was his town, she was in his childhood home. It was where he wanted to live; to come back to as soon as he's secured his success and a pretty wife. The prodigal son couldn't wait to return.

The noise of the sea breaking against the shore was faint, but it made her sleepy. She lay back down on the bed, on his side, and dozed till the sound of her own sobbing woke her. She reached out to the dresser to grab a tissue, but her hand fell on the coarse felt of his old beret. Bringing it closer to her face she inhaled its faint odour; brylcreem and cigars and let it absorb her hot tears. She had hated this thing. He had worn it all the time when they first returned here. To make a point, she thought, to show them who he was, who he had become. She thought it tasteless, a ridiculous cliche, but it provide some comfort now as she clung to it and fell asleep once more.